


Muffin

by lirin



Series: Yregrof [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, White Collar
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 00:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20398672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: Neal doesn't particularly want to have anything to do with magic ever again, much less to walk into a dingy almost-deserted wizard bar to find out what's in the mysterious cardboard box with holes punched in the top...but Mozzie did ask nicely.





	Muffin

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to "Yregrof", and will make a lot more sense if you've read that fic first!

"Are you sure this is the best use of your time?" Neal asked.

Mozzie glanced up from the pile of books he had spread all over June's dining room table. "My friend," he said firmly, "we are discovering and learning about another world. The concealment of Kennedy's true killer had nothing on this."

"We're poking into the affairs of a bunch of people with sticks that they can point at us, say one word, and we won't have any idea what happened," Neal said. "It's one of the biggest risks we've ever taken. So is there a comparable reward, or have you suddenly developed a lust for unmitigated danger?"

"The reward comes later," Mozzie said. He flipped open the cover of one of the books and pulled out a piece of paper that had been tucked inside. "We need to learn how their world works before we can learn how to manipulate it. And this"—he handed over the paper—"is our next step in learning more about this brave new world."

It was a letter, addressed to: "Tom Ingleford?" Neal read aloud.

"An alias I have chosen to adopt. One of several, in fact. When I first began my investigations, I claimed to be the Muggle widower of a witch, as that was the only way I knew of to explain that I knew of magic but could not use it myself. But after doing more research, I've learned of the existence of Squibs. They are the children of magical parents who can't use magic themselves. In responding to this advertisement, I chose to take the simpler identity of a Squib, rather than explain in depth about my late lamented wife."

"And the advertisement?"

"Was quite vague. I got the impression that whatever my mystery correspondent is selling, it's not strictly legal. And that means he won't be telling other people very much about what he's been up to, which makes it a safe option for us."

"Wait, don't you even know what he's selling?"

"It's some sort of magical artifact or object that the advertisement assured me was perfectly safe. If I can just get my hands on something magical and look at it for myself, I think I'll be able to learn a lot more about how magic works, beyond just reading about it in books. I haven't had a lot of luck infiltrating the New York magical community in person, due to the risk of running into Mrs. Suit, but corresponding with an outsider seemed much safer."

Neal sat down on the chair next to Mozzie and started paging through one of his books, for lack of anything better to do. "So you answered this ad—"

"Don't—don't touch that," Mozzie said urgently. "These are magical books, Neal. They need to be handled with care. We have no idea what they could do to the unsuspecting Muggle."

Neal dropped the book and scooted his chair back three feet. "I remain unconvinced of the utility of this particular risk-reward trade-off. So, as Mr. Ingleford, you arranged a meeting with the author of the ad, and now you're just going to show up and retrieve a dangerous magical artifact from him?"

"It's probably not dangerous, the ad said so," Mozzie said. "And I'm not going. You are."

Neal stared at him and scooted his chair back another foot for good measure. "Mozzie, I've already had people point wands at me once in my life, and as far as I'm concerned, that was one time too many. Why can't you go?"

Mozzie shook his head. "I told you, I already established myself as a Muggle widower. I've told my sob story of my dear dead wife to the only two wizard bartenders I could find in New York. Her name was Persephone, and she was very good at charms. And she made the best tiramisu you've ever tasted, and her favorite color was purple."

"I thought you said you hadn't infiltrated the community much," Neal said.

"That's just it," Mozzie said, "there are all sorts of magical shops and gathering places, but Mrs. Suit could be at any of them, so I've made sure to stay away from the few I've learned the locations of. I've only dared to go in the bars for a few minutes because she doesn't seem the bar-going type, but we haven't ruled out the possibility that some of your other Fed acquaintances are also magical, so I take care never to stay very long."

"But any of them are even more likely to recognize me than they are you," Neal said.

"That's not my present concern," Mozzie said. "The problem is, my contact has asked to meet at the Golden Stallion, and I've already been to the Golden Stallion and told everyone I was a Muggle widower. But I told my contact I was a Squib named Tom Ingleford. So I need you to be Tom Ingleford."

"You want me to lie about my identity in a bar full of witches and wizards who just have to point a stick at me and say one word to obliterate me," Neal said.

"I'm pretty sure it's obliviate, not obliterate," Mozzie said.

"Yes, that's the spell we've seen them use, but I'm pretty sure they can do the other one too," Neal said.

"But they won't, because they won't figure out anything's wrong," Mozzie said. He leaned forward, elbows on the magical books despite his threats of what they could do to unsuspecting Muggles. "There's nobody else I can ask, Neal. And we both know you're really good at what you do. If anyone can get in there without attracting suspicion, it's you. You know I'd do the same if you were asking me for a favor."

Neal sighed. "No need to twist my arm," he said. "Just tell me where the bar is, and everything you've told this Mr. Herbert A. Grid about Tom Ingleford the Squib."

* * *

The Golden Stallion belied its lofty title: it opened onto one of the dingiest alleyways to be found anywhere within Neal's radius, and the inside was dim, cramped, and distinctly un-golden. There were a few empty tables scattered about the small room, and of course the bar itself, half of which was currently occupied by a giant of a man with a pink umbrella in his lap. (Or was he an actual giant? Were such things possible? Neal regretted not reading more of Mozzie's books, even if he _had _been apprehensive about touching them.) The only other bar stool had a cardboard box on it with several holes punched into the top.

Neal stepped further into the room, head high like he'd been here a thousand times before. "Mr. Grid?" he asked, stepping up to the less-occupied bar stool.

"Ah, yeh must be the bloke I was expecting! Ingleford, righ'? Here, I'll clear that seat off fer yeh." Grid's accent was British; off the top of his head, Neal couldn't place it more specifically than that. But it matched up with the claims he'd made in the advertisement, that he was visiting from out of the country and would only be in town briefly.

Mr. Grid moved the cardboard box onto the bar, and Neal nodded to him as he took the vacated seat. "I'm Ingleford," he said. "I believe you have something for me, though I must admit that even after reading all your letters, I'm a bit unclear what." Surely Mozzie could eventually find a way to infiltrate a magical shop, or _something_ that would allow them more choice in their purchasing than this. But they were still outsiders in a world they didn't fully understand, and if Mozzie thought something was the best course of action, it often was. (Not always. Neal was a bit worried that this was one of the times that it wasn't.)

"O' course! Here she is. Isn' she pretty?" Mr. Grid opened the box, and pulled out a—something. An animal of some sort, as best Neal could tell, with several legs and a sparkling shell. Mr. Grid lowered his voice. "O' course, I couldn' say too much withou' meeting yeh firs', an' we still should keep quiet abou' this. Yeh can trust the barkeep here, but still, he'd rather not know more than he has ter. I don't keep wi' breaking the law for the most part, yeh understand, but Muffin here needs a home, and I'll do anythin' to make sure she gets one. I would've tried to get a license for her, but after the—well, it just seemed easier to find her a new home and not bother with a license, and since I was visiting New York on Hogwarts business, I thought I'd take her along."

In all of Mr. Grid's letters to Mozzie, Neal was quite certain that at no point had he mentioned that the item for sale was alive.

"Yeh've already paid," Mr. Grid continued, "so there's no need to make this transaction take longer than it needs to. Yeh know about the care and keeping of fire crabs?"

"Not—much," Neal said. Mozzie would be disappointed if he didn't come back with anything, and probably fascinated and excited if he came back with an exotic pet, but of all the magical things to start with, one with "fire" in the name didn't sound like a good bet.

"Well, yeh look like a quick study," Mr. Grid said.

Neal nodded, still thinking frantically, though to little avail.

What followed were a series of instructions on everything from feeding and watering to making sure the fire crab got enough sleep. Neal wished the bartender weren't hiding in the back away from whatever illegal transactions he may have correctly suspected were occurring in his bar; a drink would have made this all go easier.

He couldn't take Muffin home to Mozzie. Mozzie would insist on keeping her, and then she would probably set something on fire, and they would have to tell June what was going on if she hadn't already figured out, and the chances that a jeweled pyromaniac pet would end up being stumbled across by Peter or El were far too high. 

Could he just tell them? In Mozzie's surveillance videos, neither of them had seemed very happy at Neal's being obliviated. And surely they would know what to do with an (apparently unlicensed) fire crab. For one thing, their friends in Cornwall probably still owed them favors. They owed _Neal_ favors, come to think of it, even if the sort of people who repaid him for all his help with a wand to the face weren't likely to repay him any better now.

Neal _really _didn't feel like risking obliviation again, and even though he trusted Peter and El a great deal, he wasn't sure if he trusted them _that_ much. Mr. Grid was listing the fire crab's preferred genres of music, most of which Neal had never heard of. He'd just have to con Grid into selling his fire crab to someone else, he supposed. He ran through a list in his head of the people he'd met when he was forging the Mirror of Erised (or at least, those that he'd mentioned meeting in his subsequent conversations in the Burkes' living room, since Mozzie's surveillance equipment, though impressive, hadn't been able to follow him to Cornwall). Would Mr. Grid be likely to know any of them? He seemed to be from Great Britain, and they were too, but Neal didn't know how close-knit people who used magic were. He settled for a gambit that was flexible enough to go several ways, depending on Grid's response, and used the only person that he knew both a first and last name for. "I heard Harry Potter was looking to obtain a fire crab."

"Yeh know Harry Potter?" Grid asked, his eyes lighting up. He thrust his hand out and shook Neal's vigorously. "I didn' know yeh was a friend of Harry's. Any friend of Harry's is a friend of mine."

"I wouldn't say we're friends," Neal said. "We've met a couple times. Nice guy. Really nice. But you know, the distance, being all the way over here in New York, and busy schedules—well, you know how it is. But yeah, I heard he was interested in fire crabs. I'm surprised he didn't mention that to you."

"Well, I haven't seen him for a couple of weeks," Grid said. "And I didn' think ter mention Muffin ter him. He has enough secrets ter keep, an' I didn' want ter bother him with one more. Speakin' of secrets, can I trust yeh with one?"

Neal nodded.

"I thought I'd better travel incognito, because of Muffin's little licensing mix-up. But I guess yeh're all righ'. My name's really Rubeus Hagrid." He shook Neal's hand again.

Neal felt a momentary impulse to reveal his own name in return, but instantly discarded it. It would serve no purpose, and would probably just lead to somebody obliviating him again. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hagrid."

"Jus' Hagrid's fine."

"Pleased to meet you, Hagrid. So anyways, I was thinking that I don't have any space set aside for a fire crab right now—I'm afraid I slightly misunderstood your advertisement and didn't realize it would be alive. And then I got thinking about Harry, and how he'd been trying to figure out where he could get a fire crab, and I thought Muffin would be the perfect fit for him. She's beautiful, and it pangs me to give her up, but I'm pretty sure he would give her the better home."

"If anyone can get Muffin a license, Harry can," Hagrid said. "I didn' know he was lookin' for a new pet. He should've known he could jus' ask me!"

"A definite lapse of judgement on his part," Neal said. "But only a momentary one, I'm sure." He stood up from the bar and held out his hand to shake Hagrid's bear-paw-sized hand one last time. "Pleasure spending time with you, Hagrid, and I appreciate having the chance to meet your beautiful Muffin. If I can ask one last favor—please don't tell Harry I was the one who told you about his wanting a fire crab? I'm just afraid it could come back to bite me, since I was technically shopping for one without a license and all that."

Hagrid nodded vigorously. "Harry's good at keepin' secrets, I'm sure he wouldn' tell anyone. But I won't mention it."

"Thanks," Neal said, and made his escape back into the open air.

Back at June's, he took stock. Things could have gone worse, but then they definitely could have gone better. He had no fire crab and no refund for Mozzie (though if Mozzie wanted to pay strangers with ambiguous advertisements in advance, that was his business). His anklet had been in a location with known connections to wizards for a quarter of an hour, so he'd have to make up some excuse for that. And worst of all, he'd managed to pick a friend of Hagrid's to accuse of being interested in fire crabs. What were the chances, that a random British giant in a magical bar would happen to know the brother-in-law of the British guy Elizabeth Burke had a fling with in college?

He just hoped Harry Potter liked fire crabs half as much as Hagrid now thought he did.


End file.
